


Arenáicha

by sewn



Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Druids, F/M, Father/Daughter Incest, Quests, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: Mareth, a druid in training, and her father Allanon travel south, deep into the human lands, in search of an ancient magical artefact.





	Arenáicha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> This is a canon-divergent, happier-ending, Allanon Lives (And Doesn't Lose All Of His Runes Yet) AU. The story incorporates elements from the _Shannara_ book series, but plays fast and loose with the details and should be readable without any book canon knowledge. Thank you to sunny and AKA for betaing.
> 
>  _arenáicha_ (Noalath) 'forgotten'

High summer caught up with them as they were making their way down the Southland lowlands. It had been hot when they’d left Shady Vale behind, but Mareth hadn’t realized how much more of a summer a summer could be. This was the furthest south she had ever traveled.

Allanon kept his pace before her. To their right, the great river ran slowly. The calm surface of the muddy water only broke out in ripples as feeding birds and surfacing fish surged towards it. The air was sweet with the scent of wild cherries and grapes.

Slowly, the forest across the river gave way to the beginnings of a desert. The leafy trees grew smaller, eventually replaced by tall grass and scraggly bushes that bore no fruit. The earth changed too: Mareth could feel it as she reached for the power underneath her feet.

They had left their horses behind in the last village they had passed. ”It is not kind to take an animal that far south,” Allanon had said as he patted the muzzle of his horse for the last time.

From there on, it had been a well-trodden path up the river. As far as the forest reached, the air was humid and filled with the scent of grass. At night, there was a cool wind that Mareth began to think of as a luxury. This, too, changed when they left the woods behind and the desert began.

Once they reached a fork where a smaller river joined the Rappahalladran, their course took them to the southeast, towards the great human cities of the desert plains. There was a road, a well kept one, but as the land around them turned drier and drier, Mareth found herself longing for the closeness of the water.

She felt untethered in the dry heat, with only the dusty ground and hot air to rely on. She was so used to living near forests and streams that she drew magic from them unthinkingly; without either, her mind grew restless. There was power in the ground, but it lay there like a sleeping beast, something she had little interest in waking.

Allanon seemed more accustomed to the heat, but even he made concessions. As their journey went on, they shed the clothing that was more fit for the elven lands of the north. Mareth packed away her cloak, and Allanon had taken off his thick leather coat, vest, and gloves. Stripped down to his shirt, sleeves rolled up, he looked less like a wandering druid and more like any other road-weary traveler.

They met others on the road, some who wanted to sit down and exchange news, others who passed by without so much as a glance in their direction. An occasional dust cloud in the distance signaled the passing of a herd of desert-dwelling animals, bisons or pronghorns.

They stopped for the last time for a drink of water and a quick clean up as they were closing in on their destination, the city of Arishaig. Mareth scrubbed the dirt off her brow and cheeks, certain only a long bath in the clearest of Westlands waters could have washed her clean. The fine, ochre-tinged dust had settled in her father’s beard and hair, and she beckoned him over so she could clean his face as well. He complied silently.

It was a curious sensation against her fingertips, the remaining scars at the back of his neck. By now, most of them had disappeared from his skin, only to carve themselves in hers. It sometimes happened unexpectedly; it seemed random, not because of any spell she had just mastered. Once the searing pain had woken her up at night and she’d reacted with magic, flung all of their belongings in the air and scared their horses.

Another curious thing were his ears, with their round shells, a human feature that still looked odd to Mareth, soft and unprotected somehow. Her fingers itched to touch them.

“Should I disguise myself?” Mareth wondered out loud. It was a simple illusion to cover her eartips, one she’d gotten used to keeping up while traveling the land in search of her father.

“Only if you wish to,” Allanon said as he got up.

It was another of his dry replies; what he probably thought passed for humour. Mareth had gotten used to that, too, by now, but in this heat, his ambiguity wasn’t appreciated. She was about to offer a retort, but he took pity on her.

“Arishaig is a big city. There is a sizable elven community. You won’t stand out.”

Despite herself, Mareth felt a sense of relief. They’d been traversing the Southland for so long that she found herself longing for something familiar around her. It wasn’t that she much cared whether she was around humans or elves, or gnomes for that matter, and she knew she could take on any elf-hunter in fight. The thought of easy anonymity, however passing, still sounded appealing.

“How big is it, exactly?” she asked.

Mareth knew she was asking too many questions for Allanon’s liking, as usual, but he seemed to be in a good mood today. Perhaps the heat had mellowed him. He didn’t seem to find it as irritating as Mareth did; in fact, he looked healthier like this, less burdened by his responsibilities and never-ending quest.

“The biggest of known cities,” Allanon replied. “Big enough that it’s impossible to know how many dwell there. But it’s closer to a few million than under one.”

“Millions?” Mareth was incredulous. Surely he was joking.

“Yes. There are plenty of reasons for people to live there, and plenty of opportunities for them to procreate.”

Mareth tried to imagine a million humans only to fail. It was an impossible number. It also meant she still had a lot to learn about the human lands. It wasn’t too long ago she’d thought Leah was the furthest south it was necessary to travel. As they’d made their way through the lowlands on their way up the Rappahalladran, they’d passed through many human communities. Still, the biggest towns had had inhabitants numbering in thousands at most.

“I’ll have to make sure I won’t lose you in the crowd, then,” she said lightly. “Not many Shannaras around, I’m sure.”

Allanon shook his head minutely. It was probably a trick of the heat, but Mareth could have sworn he chuckled.

**

‘Big’ couldn’t begin to describe Arishaig.

Mareth thought that she really might lose Allanon if they were to part. As it was, she kept close to him as they made their way through the busy streets.

Simply entering the city had been a strange affair. It had walls to rival Arborlon’s sky-scraping palaces and Leah’s golden towers. As they approached the city, Mareth could see from afar that it was circular in form, but the closer they got, the more it started to resemble a mountain, stretched out in every direction. Once they’d reached the gates, it was almost impossible to tell the wall was curving, such was the size of it.

Mareth had been puzzling over the fact that anyone would think to build a city on the plains where it was vulnerable to enemy forces. It made sense now: more than anything, the city resembled a fortress. Surrounded by a wide moat, so deep you couldn’t see to the bottom of it, it looked ready to withstand any kind of attack by land. The bridges over the moat were massive, but made of wood – for burning down if needed, she realized. Allanon had told her a little about the city’s history, about its sacking by a demon army long ago, and its rebuilding. The time it must have taken to build it up again – Mareth could hardly imagine that, either.

When they reached the gate, after a slow progress among the steady stream of people making their way into the city, they were halted by a city official who inquired about their business. Hunched over his books, he looked like he didn’t much care about the people he was letting in, only that he made a mark of everyone.

“We are here to work,” Allanon had said. “We have relatives in the city and they encouraged us to find employment here.” The official scratched something on the ink-dotted page in illegible hand and asked for their names. “Grimsay,” Allanon said. “This is my daughter, Iona.” Mareth quickly disguised the staff she carried. The official probably would have paid it no mind anyway.

“What happened to not disguising ourselves?” Mareth asked once they’d cleared the gates and let the stream of people carry them towards the city proper.

“There may be elves here, but as for druids, we are the only ones. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions.”

By now Mareth had learned that humans tended to be less leery of druids than elves, even less so down south. Perhaps it was the distance, and the history. The last time druids had had a presence here, they’d been instrumental in defeating an enemy. Nowadays, they’d mostly been forgotten. Allanon didn’t usually hide his identity; in any case, not everyone took the word _druid_ seriously to begin with.

Mareth didn’t bother continuing with questions as they made their way through the outskirts of the city. They’d entered only what seemed to be the first layer of Arishaig, the outermost ring of the round fortress. Their final destination lay deeper. Once again, Allanon hadn’t told her the details, but he strode on with purpose, and she matched his pace, stealing glances at the rundown houses and makeshift huts they passed.

**

The inn Allanon chose for them to stay at was in the third ring, which seemed to be filled with markets full of vendors, pubs of various sizes, and workshops of craftsmen of all trades.

There really were elves here, and no one spared so much as a look at Mareth. The innkeeper herself was half-elf, although dressed in a way quite different from the elves of the north, with short-cropped hair and simple, practical clothing.

The room they shared was spare, with two narrow beds and a table on one side of the room. What drew Mareth’s attention was the sink in the corner. It was odd seeing one in an ordinary establishment like this. Running water was a luxury of the royals of Leah and Arborlon, made possible by a system of aqueducts. Mareth had rarely had the opportunity to enjoy its benefits.

Allanon noticed her staring at the faucet.

”They are no thing of wonder here,” he said. ”The city has an artificial river running underneath it, usable in any house that wants to build the pipes for it.”

It was known that the humans were skilled in machinery, though to what extent was unclear. Leah was certainly an opulent city, but not that different from the elven towns. Now, Mareth began to wonder if part of its riches weren’t the fruits of the southern parts of their land. Perhaps it wasn’t a magical artefact Allanon was here to retrieve, but some sort of mechanical contraption.

“No, it is magic. Very deep, ancient magic,” he told her when they left the inn.

Allanon would have had Mareth stay behind, but she stuck to his side, as always. While Allanon still refused to teach her everything, she had resolved to observe him and at least learn by example. He was resigned to his fate by now.

**

It was only a little past midday. They made their way through a maze of alleys, each housing dozens of little stores and workshops and filled to the brim with people of all races. Mareth was surprised to see dwarves. She had only ever met them far up northeast. Even then, she had barely exchanged words with one before. Now, she stepped into a tiny shop with a dwarven shopkeeper, who appeared more than happy to help them.

 _Cora Dreshan_. That was the name of the person they were looking for, Mareth had finally learned. To her it seemed that the only lead Allanon had was her name, and his only method visiting every shopkeep, blacksmith, carpenter and cobbler they came across. This had meant their progression through the third ring was slow.

No Arishaigi so far had professed any knowledge of a person with that name – Coras and Dreshans, sure, but no one with both of those names.

“What if she’s changed her name?” Mareth had asked.

“Then we find someone who knew her before she did,” Allanon replied.

This seemed like a supremely inefficient way of doing things, but so was the druid way.

The dwarf, however, sat up as she heard the name. Mareth glanced at Allanon; he must have been reading her mind, but he didn’t let it on.

“I haven’t heard of that name in a long time,” she said after some deliberation. “What do you want with her?” She didn’t sound unkind, just surprised.

“I wish I could learn something from her,” Allanon said. “I’ve heard about her skills, and I think she could be of great help to me. And my daughter,” he added. He rarely acknowledged Mareth as such out loud. Perhaps he hoped it would somehow make him appear more sympathetic.

“Ah,” said the dwarf. “I see.” She gave them both a look-over. “In that case, I think you’ve already got what you wanted.” She tapped her temple knowingly. “Now, may I interest you in some Dechteran bronzework?”

**

It didn’t take long for them to find the right place after that. The house stood in a less populated area, where small wooden houses lined the street side-by-side. It was almost as run-down as the huts Mareth had seen on the outskirts of the city, but the windows had glass panes, and the porch was clean and there were living flowers growing in pots on the tiny front yard.

The human woman who answered the door was gaunt but tall and strong-looking, with a little gray in her dark long braids.

“Cora?” The woman sounded surprised, as Allanon introduced himself – using his real name this time – and asked about Cora Dreshan.

Mareth’s heart sank; of course, Cora Dreshan could have moved a long time ago, and the house’s current inhabitants wouldn’t know of her whereabouts. But the woman went on.

“She…” she began carefully. “Doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Did she move? Do you know where?” Allanon asked, blunt as usual.

“No, no, she,” the woman shook her head. “She died. Some years ago. Who are you exactly?”

She gave them the same look as the dwarf had before, seemingly coming to a similar conclusion. She didn’t seem taken aback either, and hummed a little.

“Well then. I think you should come in. That –” and she nodded in Allanon’s direction, “– doesn’t work on me, either. You’ll have to let me tell you over tea.”

**

The woman introduced herself as Alinda.

“I was widowed three years ago,” she said. “It was the red fever, the kind you can get here. Cora held on longer than others, but there was nothing to be done, even with her powers.” She smiled sadly. “She always fought harder for others than for herself.”

She poured them another cup of red tea, which the locals drank with a lot of sugar and lemon.

“I’ve made my peace with it, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.” She looked Allanon in the eye. “It surprises me that someone from up north would have heard of her. We lived our whole lives in Arishaig.”

“Word gets around, if slowly,” Allanon replied softly. “I believe she was in possession of something that the druids have been after for a long time. Something that has to do with the root of all magic.” He put his cup down. “Do you have any idea of what that could be?”

Alinda was silent for a while. “She had a lot of things,” she finally said. “I still have most of them, except the ones I’ve sold. Few here have use for the genuine druid artefacts. Perhaps you’d like to take a look at them?”

Alinda lead them into a room further back in the house – it was not wide, but made up for it in depth, it seemed. The walls were lined with shelves, which were covered in little statues, boxes, jewelry and all other kinds of small items. Cora must have channeled her magic through them.

Allanon had told Mareth a little about the different kinds of magic; theirs weren’t the only ways to wield its power. Many of the magical items they had been on the search for were old, forged by elves of old who had lived before the druids even existed.

“You can look around,” Alinda told them. “I’ll be outside.”

Allanon started to inspect the shelves slowly and meticulously. Mareth followed his example on the other other side of the room, but she soon grew impatient.

“How on earth could you find something among all this? Do you know what it looks like?”

Allanon made a noncommittal sound.

“You _don’t_?” Mareth sighed. “Do you even know what it is? A statue? A ring? A –” her gaze landed on the next object, “– golden snake strangling a monkey?”

Her huffing and puffing had no effect on Allanon, so as an act of protest, Mareth settled on not helping him. The air in the room was hot and stuffy, and she closed her eyes. They had had no rest all day, and she hadn’t realized how much the bustle of the city had gotten on her nerves. It was quiet here, and she let her senses adjust to the peace. She let her magic move about, let herself feel the earth below, the little growing things around the house, the warmth of the air.

In the center of all of it, there was something that pulled at her attention. She felt around it: it was clearly a source of magical power, not strong but still there. She concentrated on it, tried to draw its power into her body, but it didn’t work. It wasn’t something of nature, then, but –

“Open your eyes.” Allanon spoke lightly.

Mareth complied. Without realizing, she had walked over to one of the shelves and apparently picked up a little wooden box. It was light, almost like it was made of nothing but paper.

“Sorry,” she said, “I wasn’t thinking –” She was about to put the box down, but Allanon stepped close to her, and took it instead. He turned it around in his hands.

“Why did you pick this one?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mareth said. “It just – I think it called to me.”

He looked her in the eye. Mareth still felt the tendrils of magic curling inside her, slowly leaving her body. She expected him to chide her once again for letting her magic roam free, but he just looked pensive.

“We’re done,” he said.

**

They left Alinda’s house with the box, which she gave to them with no question.

“Cora told me the artefacts will find their new owners,” she said. “I’m glad it found you.”

Upon returning to the inn, Mareth was both tired beyond belief and burning with curiosity about the box.

“Are you sure it is the right one?” she asked. They had sat at the table, with the box between them.

“I… felt it too,” said Allanon. “It cannot be a coincidence. It is strong in power.”

Allanon touched the box carefully again, running his bare fingers over the carvings on its surface. There was a visible lid, but no keyhole or latch. It looked a little like a children’s puzzlebox, but it didn’t seem to have any moving parts you could push in and out.

“I suppose you don’t know how to open it?”

Allanon shook his head lightly, as if it was obvious. “It must require some spell. I don’t know what kind, but I can try to find out.”

He opened his palm and held the box up. He closed his eyes, murmuring something in Noalath.

It was fascinating to see him do this up close. Allanon followed his own rules and rarely used magic unless it was absolutely needed. This mostly meant battles where someone was about to be horrifically killed. Even then, he favoured brute force over his druid fire. Now, he mouthed the words quietly, a few times over, too quick for Mareth to catch all of it.

 _Oros_. Earth. It sounded soft in his voice. Mareth had rarely heard the language of the druids spoken aloud before finding Allanon; her mother had only taught her to read it. Whenever Mareth tried out a spell, it still came out sharp, like she had to force the words out of herself.

Suddenly, Allanon dropped the box.

“What is it?” Mareth asked. She thought he looked uncomfortable, which was rarely his reaction upon their discovering magical artefacts.

“Ah,” he said. He rarely seemed to be at loss for words, either; his silence was of the deliberate kind.

Allanon took the box, which had landed on its side but looked unharmed.

“It… requires very specific magic to open.”

“What kind?” Mareth asked. Allanon was well-versed in magical history and customs; she knew she was lucky to have someone who had lived centuries ago to pass on arcane knowledge to her, no matter how prickly. Any time he parted wisdom on a new, unfamiliar strand of magic, she hung onto his words and begged him to demonstrate. It was a strategy that had worked so far. More or less.

“The kind I never learned in my time as a student,” Allanon said, not lifting his eyes from the box. It was typically vague of him, but he continued to sound discomfited, almost apologetic.

“Is it some form of elemental magic, then?”

That was what Allanon called her type of power, a magic that drew in strength from all around her, using her body as the conduit. He had been trained more formally; his magic wasn’t innate, but painstakingly acquired over the years. Mareth had slowly started to understand what this meant, for both of them. Whenever she used magic, it felt like it flowed through her, lighting her skin on fire or sometimes just warming her fingertips. It was tempting to let go, release all of it at once, and she had to hold back not to go too far. For Allanon, magic took its toll. What pleasure he took in using magic came intellectually, from knowing he’d achieved something.

“Yes. In a way,” Allanon said. “But I doubt you’ve… experienced it either.”

Mareth was getting impatient with his unspecificity.

“You know what it is then? Is it something I could learn to do?”

Allanon lifted his gaze. He looked guarded, and he was a little flushed.

“You... could. But it’s no use. There’s no one here you could use to perform it with. It’ll just have to wait until we’ve returned north.”

With someone? This was something Mareth hadn’t heard about before. Allanon read people’s minds, usually in the form of their moods and emotions, sometimes words – he had to stop himself not to – but even he couldn’t channel someone else’s power. He’d never taught her any spells that needed casting by the two of them.

“Are you sure? Whatever it is, surely we could try it,” she pressed on. She’d had to force his arm to teach her certain spells before. Perhaps the box required something especially painful to open. “It doesn’t require human sacrifice, does it?”

Allanon smiled a little at that. “No. Although…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

By now, Mareth was beyond intrigued. She begged him to tell her more, but he didn’t budge, telling her it was something he could talk to her about later. These conversations always ended with Mareth feeling like she was a petulant child, and she gave up out of embarrassment more than anything.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’m going to the market.”

**

Next morning, Mareth woke up early, after a night of fitful sleep. The sounds of the city had disturbed her: even at night, there was constant traffic in the streets, and the sounds carried up into their room. She had to listen to drunken singing, shouting, and various other noises of human life all night through. Allanon, on his part, seemed to have no trouble falling asleep as usual.

They had spent the rest of the previous day wary of each other and shared their evening meal in silence. The Arishaigi specialty seemed to be dumplings dipped in thick soup. Mareth chewed on hers thoroughly, trying to hold back from saying anything.

Even though the sun wasn’t up yet – the walls of the city blocked both sunset and sunrise, which Mareth found quite awful – she got out of bed and dressed to go outside.

The air had cooled in the night, to the point she felt chilly in the sheer tunic she’d chosen. It was a shocking counterpoint to the heat of the day. Allanon often cautioned her not to use magic for personal gain, as he put it, but Mareth let the power of the ground beneath her feet flow through her, warm her up. It came to her naturally, always had, and she hadn’t let his arbitrary rules change all of her ways. He didn’t know how it _felt_ , really, after all.

Once Mareth returned to the inn after a few hours of wandering around, she found their room empty. Allanon had left her a note – simply the name of an alley, without a greeting or a signature – so she’d know where he’d gone. At first Mareth thought he had taken the box with him and was trying to track down a technique to open it, but she soon noticed a bundle of leather on his bed. Without much remorse, she took the bundle and opened it.

The box was heavier than she remembered. It had a dark, immaculate lacquer finish, and it was covered in numerous, thin carvings. It fit on the palm of her hand.

Mareth sat at the table and placed the box in front of her. It looked ordinary, if finely made, a lot more conspicuous than the items they had tracked down so far. It could have held a piece of jewelry – perhaps it did – or some expensive spice. She ran the tip of her forefinger along its edges and across the carvings. It often helped to touch things when she wanted to reach for their magic: placing her palm on the ground, or dipping her fingers into clear river water. The box wasn’t of living wood, but it still whispered with a similar voice to her.

Mareth closed her eyes and concentrated. The strain of magic was definitely there: a flicker at the back of her mind. She tried to reach for it, but it felt slippery, like she was trying to catch a trout with her bare hands. She tried to think of the box as a living branch, but that wasn’t quite it – it was hard to put into words how the different sources of power felt inside her; she just knew that the power of the earth flowed through her differently than that of water or air.

She concentrated so hard that it felt like physical exertion. Her muscles tensed and her heart picked up speed. Tightening her grip on the box, she tensed further, toes curling and shoulders drawing up. Her thighs rubbed together, and she tried to ignore the warmth between her legs that the movement caused.

Treacherously, the thought entered her mind that she had had little time to take care of her needs, tied as she was to her father’s company. They both spent time alone every now and then, discreetly, bathing separately and taking walks while the other rested. In the desert and here in Arishaig, they’d been together every waking moment – before now, she thought, the idea slipping into her mind that now was the perfect opportunity to –

The door creaked. Mareth’s eyes flew open and she let go of the box. Pain flooded her hand and she realized she’d gripped the box so hard the sharp wooden edges had dug deeply into her palm, almost enough to draw blood. Worse was her other hand, though, jammed between her thighs without her noticing it.

Mareth pulled her hand free as if burned by fire. Blood flooded her cheeks. She forced herself to turn to look at Allanon, who was just entering, a basket under his arm.

“I – I’m sorry,” she muttered. There was still a throbbing between her legs that wouldn’t abate. Had he seen her? If he had, he ignored it coolly, looking instead at the box, which had landed on its side on the table.

“I see you couldn’t resist,” he said with not quite a sigh. Mareth expected a lecture, but Allanon just walked over, placed the basket on the table and picked up the box.

“I brought us lunch,” he informed her. This time, he pocketed the box. He didn’t look her in the eye as he sat down and began to break the bread.

Their conversation picked up soon again. It was what their relationship had formed into, Mareth pestering Allanon until one of them snapped, causing a rift that lasted until the next day at the most, followed by a peaceful few days until something contentious happened again.

Now, however, Mareth wasn’t keen to disturb the peace. After the initial shame passed, she began to really wonder about the box. He’d said he knew what was needed to open it, and she remembered the feeling she’s had just before his entrance had distracted her, as if the box was reaching for her in some way. The sensation had been tangled up in her arousal, and not coincidentally, she was sure of it.

So, she had formed a working theory, one she desperately wanted to share with Allanon, but she was unsure of how to breach the subject. She wasn’t shy about sex, but she wanted to be considerate of his feelings – she did have tact when she wanted to.

**

They spent the rest of the day in Arishaig. Besides the box, Mareth was curious about the city. Commoners were allowed to enter as deep as the sixth ring of the city, beyond which lay the political district. Another thing she had learned about the human lands was that they had an intricate political system which had room for both a Queen and a cabinet of ministers.

“And here I thought it was hard enough remembering who the current King is,” she said as Allanon told her about the governance of the Southland. It was another impossible-sounding thing, a system that sought to control every inhabitant of the land and tax them all, but apparently it had contributed to the marvels of machinery that humans were capable of. The fourth ring, which was the industrial district, was filled to the brim with both unimaginable wonders and filth.

“You could think of it as a sort of magic,” Allanon mused, a rare offering of explanation. “Our blood lacks it by nature. We either learn it, or learn ways around it.”

The sixth ring housed the public gardens. It was a relief to get back into nature, caged and tamed as it was. The trees here were a myriad different species, forced to grow side by side. The flowers came in every variety, some known to her from up north but most of them exotic and unfamiliar.

“What a curious thing to assemble,” Mareth murmured as she crouched down to splay her hand on the green grass. It was a feeling she had missed ever since they left the Duln forests behind. She breathed in the sweet air and felt streams of magic reaching out to her, faint but still there.

“Do you not like it?” Allanon asked.

Mareth got up.

“It’s not a question of _my_ liking.” She brushed her palms against her tunic, not bothered if she smudged it. “All of this –” she let her gaze travel around, from maple to acacia, from rosebush to camellia, “– it shouldn’t exist. Not here.”

“And yet it does.” 

_Because of humans and their inventions_ , Mareth thought. _It’s not –_

“Natural?”

Allanon seemed immediately sorry that he’d spoken. He rarely reminded Mareth of his gift in conversation, perhaps out of courtesy. She appreciated it – she had nothing to hide, but the idea of having her mind constantly read was still an uneasy one. Now, she found it didn’t bother her. It was almost like she sensed the lingering touch of his mind against hers.

“I can feel it in their power,” she said out loud. “It’s like they’re chained.”

Over the past months, Mareth had become to trust her sense of magic implicitly. The power around her and inside her still often felt like an unknown land. She used to think she needed to learn how to control it, but she knew now she could live with it, _in_ it. The thrill she got from magic streaming through her no longer felt like a reckless indulgence she would be punished for. Before, she might have felt relief in such a barren environment. Now it filled her with pity.

By midday, the air had turned hot again, and they stopped to enjoy the shade underneath a tree that was bigger and older than most surrounding them. She placed her hand on the bark and could feel the tree’s lifeblood, a much weaker force than a tree of its strength should have had. Still, it filled her with confidence, which she felt started to drain inside the stone walls of the city.

Mareth concentrated on the tree and the too-neat grass beneath her feet, but she could tell Allanon was watching her from where he was standing. Suddenly, she felt a jolt in her mind, another source of power calling to her. _The box_ , she thought. It was still inside Allanon’s pocket. As she concentrated, it was like she could feel the warmth of his skin through it. She could feel what it wanted: for both of them to connect to it. To connect to each other.

Swallowing and stepping back from the tree, Mareth decided she needed to get to the working part of her theory.

**

There was no good time to bring it up, so Mareth cornered Allanon about the box’s brand of magic the first moment she could.

They’d returned to their room and prepared for leaving the city the next morning. There was nothing more here for them to see, they both had concluded. Even during this short stay, Mareth had started to yearn for the open road again.

“You know exactly how to open the box, don’t you?” she asked, once they were preparing for bed, both half-dressed. She unclasped her necklace and dropped it next to the box on the table.

“Mareth,” Allanon said in a warning tone. He rarely called her by her name.

“Seeing as you do, and I only have a… hunch,” she continued, turning and taking a step towards him and his bed, “– feel free to correct me.”

Mareth took the remaining steps, which brought her right against Allanon. She had to look up to meet his eyes. He didn’t look away, though he looked pained, and as Mareth put her hands on his shoulders he grabbed her left wrist, gently but firmly.

“You don’t need to do this,” he rumbled, but his voice was soft, far from commanding.

“No,” she said, “but I want to.”

Mareth reached up and kissed him then, aiming for a chaste peck at first to test the waters.

Allanon’s grip on her wrist turned into a vise as he opened his mouth and circled her waist with his other arm. Mareth was pulled against his chest, and she parted her lips with a gasp. Excitement flooded her body. His short rough beard scratched her lips, and she licked into his mouth, tongue against teeth.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Allanon let go of her and drew in a sharp breath. He tried to pull back but he was trapped between Mareth and his bed. She tried to calm him, palms sliding up his chest.

“Mareth, we –”

“Can’t?” she interrupted. “Because you are my father?”

Mareth swallowed, fingers gripping his shirt. Even after all this time, she found it hard to think of him that way, even if she had grown fond of him. She didn’t expect herself to be his responsibility; he didn’t exist to take care of her or guide her, except in the ways of magic. Their relationship existed because it _needed_ to, for druids not to disappear from this world.

He didn’t answer her. She could feel the thrum of his heart in his chest.

“Or is it because of what you were taught? That the way of the magic is to be controlled? Caged and clipped?”

Allanon looked so forlorn, so lost, that Mareth reached up to cup his cheek in her hand. She went on.

“Because if there’s something you’ve taught me, it’s _not_ to listen to you when I know not to. You don’t know everything. You don’t know this.”

Mareth satisfied her curiosity, brought her hand up so she could run her thumb along the curve of Allanon’s ear. She was ready to concentrate, but was surprised to find it came easy to her, the flow of magic through her, so strong and and pure that it took her breath away. She’d done this before, shared the warmth that her body brimmed with, but it took effort. Now, it was easy to reach around and mold the power of the elements; and it wasn’t just that: it was everything, her light touch on Allanon’s skin, the heat of his body, the way he looked at her. She thought of the call of the box, how it had filled her mind, and how much her body was drawn to his in this moment.

Allanon closed his eyes.

“Mareth,” he said, but it wasn’t in warning anymore.

She reached up again and kissed his cheek softly, wanting to reassure him, and pressed another kiss into the corner of his mouth. 

Their next kiss was slower, gentler, even though it stoked the fire Mareth felt inside. They had only thin layers of fabric between them, and she pushed her hips against his intently.

Allanon pulled back again, but not in shame anymore. He kept his arms around her.

”You think too much,” he murmured and kissed her forehead. ”You always do.”

”Maybe you should do something about it,” she said. She leaned into him to kiss his collarbone, revealed by his slipping shirt. She thought of the lewdest thing she could, and he half-gasped, half-laughed into her hair.

”We are not going to do that,” he said, but his hand traveled lower and came around her hips. He fit the curve of her behind in his hand. It made Mareth aware of just how much she ached between her legs, and in answer he squeezed lightly, fingers tantalizingly close to where she burned. She pressed closer and bit the skin over his collarbone, lightly and not intent on making a mark, but suddenly filled with desire to touch and taste him, every inch of his skin.

Impatient, she slid her hands down to tug at his breeches. He let her undo them and pull off his shirt. Once he stood before her in nothing but his skin, Mareth satisfied her desire and started by kissing the hollow at his throat, running fingers through the hair on his chest. They rarely touched each other, and it felt odd to find him so solid, so tangible.

Allanon let her roam his body, and only made a sound when she bit at his neck and pressed close enough that she felt the enticing shape of his hardened cock.

Allanon took her gently by the shoulders and detached her from himself. He let his hand drift to the top of the arm wrap she was still wearing.

”May I?” Allanon asked, as if he needed to be polite with her. Mareth nodded.

His fingers circled her upper arm and with the others, he tugged the end of the cloth free. Allanon unwrapped it slowly, revealing her tattooed skin. Mareth held her breath as he lifted her arm up and placed a kiss on the vine that ran down her arm all the way down to the back of her hand. The touch of his mouth was dry and warm, but it sent a shiver through her.

Allanon kissed the skin as it was revealed to him, little by little; then, he did the same to her left arm until she was wearing nothing but her sleeveless tunic. He ran his palms up her arms until he was holding her lightly by the upper arms, covering her tattooed wings.

”They’re beautiful,” he murmured.

 _So are you_ , Mareth thought, and she could tell he read that from the way he stilled. It was true; the waning light from the window caught in his hair and eyelashes, painted his eyes with dark shadows. 

She finished undressing by pulling off her tunic herself. The brush of the light fabric on her skin made her aware of how hot and sensitive she felt, and when she stepped into his arms again, she trembled, as if a low buzz had settled under her skin. 

Allanon sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap. Mareth sat astride him, bracketing his strong thighs. His cock stood hard between them, and she resisted the urge to reach for it just yet and simply enjoyed it pressing against her belly as she embraced Allanon.

Abandoning her mouth, he kissed his way down her throat and her chest. One of the runes he’d lost had carved itself between her breasts. He kissed it softly, too, before licking across her breast, the tip of his tongue catching on her nipple. Curiously, her toes curled at that: she wasn’t usually sensitive there, but something about that had her body reacting, and she felt herself get wetter, ground her hips down for any kind of pressure.

Allanon halted his exploration of her breasts. “I – I’m sorry, that’s –”

Mareth shushed him, mouth against his temple. It was _his_ desire she was flooded with. Was this what he felt like all the time? She didn’t think she was reading his thoughts, but she felt his emotions, like a curling vine around her own.

“No, it’s good. Do it again,” she breathed out, fingertips digging into the skin of his back. He complied, gently worrying her nipple between his teeth, and she concentrated on the feeling slipping into her veins. His pleasure at tasting her skin flared in her mind.

It seemed Allanon wanted to explore her skin, too, soothe the places where her skin was now marked with magic. He gently touched the runes on the back of her neck as he returned to kiss her.

“Is it odd?” Mareth whispered against his mouth. He had carried the runes for so long.

Allanon shook his head lightly. She could sense his mind, pride and longing tangled together.

“It is as it should be,” he said.

Mareth pushed him down, then, and he went on his back willingly. She ran her palm slowly down his chest. He had scars now; real scars, white or still light pink in colour, never to be healed. She’d taken that away from him, too.

Mareth almost lifted her hand, but he must have read her mind again because he shook his head and whispered roughly, ”Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.”

 _Does it not?_ she thought, running her fingertips around.

She draped herself over him in search of another kiss. She closed her eyes and felt her magic around her like ripples in the air. She also felt the telltale anger lift its head inside her. She knew now what becoming a druid entailed, and she was grateful to him for that, but she hated the thought of hurting him more and more every day. And despite the control he had honed over the years, he was careless when it came to his own flesh. Would she too become accustomed to pain, certain she could always mend herself?

Their kiss turned frantic as her mind swirled around. She could feel his thoughts, too, frustrated and confused.

Suddenly, like breaking through the surface of a river in winter, her body and mind ran ice-cold. Her fingers, which had wound themselves in his hair, tightened into fists and she couldn’t tell which it was that caused him to swear into her mouth, the stinging in his scalp, the stutter of her hips against his cock, or their sudden, shared sensation. It passed through Mareth quickly, but she could feel his shivering, against her lips, her hands, the skin of her thighs.

Even in the the daze of arousal, Mareth’s thoughts solidified into worry.

“Are you in pain?” she whispered. She forced herself to still and placed a hand on his cheek, swept a thumb along his cheekbone. Distantly, she felt the wetness there.

“No,” Allanon said, but corrected himself immediately, unable to lie. “Yes, but –” he let his hand travel up her back, fingertips light over her spine.

“We’ll stop then,” she murmured, even though every inch of her body protested the thought.

“No,” he gasped. “It hurts, but – that’s not all there is.” As if to demonstrate, he seemed to gather himself and brought both hands to her hips, guiding her until she felt his hardness again.

“Your magic,” he said, breathless, “I can feel it.”

Mareth sat back up again. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let her senses open, and there: she felt it, too. Allanon’s magic, clear and hard in her mind, distinct and different and yet borne of the same source as hers. She realized she could feel as he felt, see as he saw.

It wasn’t just pain as she’d thought his magic brought to him; there was a sense of purpose and growth. Yes, it took its toll, but at the same time, it strengthened him, made him see the worth of every little thing in the world. He looked at a thing and saw its entire meaning: its history and its potential. And she could feel him feeling her, her pleasure and joy of free magic, her fire. Their power flowed around them as one clear stream.

Mareth had begun to rock her hips unthinkingly against the length of his cock, which still rested hot and hard between their bodies, hers for the taking. The sweet, familiar ache crashed over her like a wave. Still, she wanted something else first.

Knowing he knew every move she was going to make, she lifted herself up enough so she could move up his chest, until her knees rested on the sides of his head.

”Okay?” she asked, even though a shiver went through her as his wanting of her echoed in her bones.

Allanon slid a hand up her thigh and pulled her hips down.

Mareth closed her eyes again, the pressure and the sensation of something solid against her a relief. She rocked her hips gently and thrilled in the way his tongue met her flesh.

Her own pleasure bloomed inside her, comforting and exciting at the same time. She reached to feel his magic again, and it was dizzying to feel his desire and the way she made him feel. It still hurt him, the way her magic forced his to react, but he was filled with wonder at her power, suddenly feeling it first-hand. It was an endless mirroring of their thoughts and sensations.

Allanon held lightly onto her hips, and Mareth rocked down. She usually got frustrated trying to find the right angle, but he pressed the flat of his tongue perfectly against her and pulled her hips down, encouraging her to move.

Mareth couldn’t help but smile, delight mingling with her other emotions.

”That’s cheating,” she said, but it came out fond.

She took full advantage of the easy coordination then and fucked into the softness, thrilled by the way his tongue pressed against her just right, caught her favourite spot. His beard scratched the soft skin of her thighs, and she concentrated on those twin feelings, the prickling and the pleasure that flooded her. She was nearing her crest, filled with the desire to grind down, but she forced herself to stop. He let her pull back, although she felt his reluctance.

”Not yet?” he asked, gravel in his voice. His eyes were black in the low light, his breathing hard.

Mareth just shook her head and let him feel the thoughts occupying her head, the urgency to come, the desire to prolong it, and the desperation for something inside her. He gasped and his loose hold on her hips turned tighter.

Mareth moved back and Allanon relaxed his grip. She straddled his hips again. His cock was dark and heavy, curving up against a thatch of coarse hair. She slid her palm up around it greedily.

Allanon moaned, trying to bite it back, but it was hopeless. Knowing exactly how much he wanted her made Mareth’s head reel and her muscles tighten around nothing.

Without any more hesitation, she lifted herself and took him inside, trying to stretch out the pleasure of the first slide in but failing, eagerness winning over as she sank down. It earned her another moan from Allanon.

Beginning a steady rhythm but trying her best to keep it slow, Mareth bent down to catch his mouth in a kiss again. His hips rocked up, and he slid his broad palm up between her shoulder blades.

The magic around them crackled like fire, burned like ice, was broken and remade again and again until there was no telling where hers started and his began.

**

“So, is this what it’s always like when druids have sex?”

Mareth felt light and giddy. Little tendrils of warmth still caressed her body.

“Believe me when I say I have never experienced anything like that before.”

Allanon was serious, and this time, the gravity of his words didn’t irritate Mareth. She felt something in her heart, not the pull of magic but something more ephemeral. She pushed that aside as something to deal with later.

It was easy to distract herself anyway, as he turned his head to kiss her shoulder. The scratch of his beard against her skin still sent a delicious spark all over her, and she turned to her side. They kissed softly for a while, aimlessly, enjoying the connection lingering between them.

“Do you always feel that cold?” Mareth asked after they broke apart, before she could help herself.

Allanon’s gaze turned guarded again.

”It is necessary,” he said simply.

 _It doesn’t have to be_ , she thought.

He sighed and ran his fingers slowly up her arm.

”And do you always run so hot?” he asked in turn. It wasn’t one of his evasive maneuvers, though, just a question. Like he really hadn’t thought of it before, even if he was aware of her every thought.

“Look,” he said, before Mareth had time to answer. She glanced down at herself: the runes on her skin had burst into light. They didn’t glow deep red as usual, and she didn’t feel the burn. Instead, it was a gentle tickle up and down her body.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed with the magic bubbling under her skin. Blindly, she sought his hand in hers. She wanted him to feel it too, a sensation that was both new and familiar.

It lasted only for a moment. The feeling passed, she opened her eyes.

“Am I a real druid now?” she whispered, light-headed. Allanon regarded her with a smile.

“I think you are something more.”

With one more kiss, Mareth got up to pull on her tunic and fill a pitcher of water. When her eyes fell on the table, she saw that the box had cracked open. As she stepped closer she could see its contents: it was empty.

**

Allanon only breached the subject of the box again once they were back on the road, the noise and shadows of Arishaig left behind.

“It’s made of an Ellcrys,” he said. “Like your staff.”

“The Ellcrys?”

Mareth thought of the tree standing in the middle of Arborlon; of the elven princess, her cousin.

“One of them. She grew a long time ago, in a different forest.”

“And did you see this Ellcrys?” History, and Allanon’s place in it, still mostly remained a mystery to Mareth. Perhaps now it could change.

Allanon smiled. “No, it was long before my time. The Ellcrys has existed before this world, and the world before that. Perhaps since time itself began. She lives, dies, and is reborn.”

Mareth had no questions after that, but she mulled it over as they reached the last outpost of the city, filled their flagons with water, and took to the road again.

Something that had lived forever, that was inexorably tied to all the magic in the world – if this was what she wanted, where she had guided them, there was no arguing back, was there? Mareth considered voicing her thoughts, but then, she didn’t need to.

The road ahead of them was hard and never-ending, but they would travel together.


End file.
